


Deal Me In

by words4nerdz



Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 12:57:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4522950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/words4nerdz/pseuds/words4nerdz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Atton gets in over his head at the pazaak den in Nar Shaddaa and pushes himself past his limits. Just a dumb little one-shot with implied mutual feelings and awkward flirting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deal Me In

Stepping into the grimy pazaak den was like walking into an old memory. A good one, mind you. Not one of the innumerable bad ones. The smells of cheap alcohol, acrid smoke, and nervous sweat blended with electric anticipation, sickly desperation, and bitter disappointment to create that inimitable "pazaak den" scent, which flooded his nostrils with the unsettling strength of nostalgia. It settled in the folds of his old jacket with the familiarity of an old friend, and sunk itself readily into his hair with all the hungry enthusiasm of a new lover. Atton Rand grinned, jamming his hands into his pockets to forestall any unsolicited investigation. This was his element. Among the liars and the sharks, the swindlers and the cheats. Reading their tells, dancing with Lady Luck, and raking in the cash by virtue of his wits and instincts. Pazaak was a rush, a clean one, and in all truth, his skills at the game could more than prove an asset to their little mission.

"I'm gonna get us some credits," he declared, looking sidelong at his companions. As much as he reveled in this atmosphere, the women he was with had seemed to diminish as soon as they'd walked in, hesitant and out of place. The Miraluka was no surprise, but somehow he'd expected the ex-Jedi to show the same quiet confidence that she'd kept bright and hard around her like an energy shield on Citadel Station. Suddenly she was letting him lead. It wasn't entirely unwelcome—he'd begun chafing beneath the commands of others, however inoffensively issued, and it felt damn good to know she respected him enough to let him have his head. On the other hand, he couldn't help but worry that this delegation of responsibility was a symptom of uncertainty. A weakness that, if not addressed, would mark her as a target on the smuggler's moon. He resolved not to let her out of his sight until they were back aboard the Hawk.

She caught him staring. "What? You need my permission?" The troubling vulnerability had vanished quicker than an unattended credit chit at a swoop race, but he suspected it was still there, just beneath the surface. 

Not that he cared, or anything.

"No! I just..." He smoothed his hair to recover his poise. "Try not to embarrass yourself while I'm playing, okay? Just watch for threats and let me know if anyone's lookin' twitchy." Credits—or, more accurately, losing credits—brought out the worst in people, and the people of Nar Shaddaa didn't have the best to begin with. If things went south, he didn't want his first alert to be a blaster bolt to the back.

She scowled, unaccustomed to him giving her orders. "Don't give anyone cause to get riled up. I'm getting a drink." The Miraluka followed her to the bar, and Atton grinned at their receding backs. She'd spot him, even if she was miffed. Whatever qualms she might have about gambling, there was no denying they could use the money, and it was best that she didn't draw any more attention to herself. 

The rumors they'd heard about the bounty hunters on this godforsaken moon wriggled like a sick worm in the back of his skull. Dark whispers in alleys, the prickly sensation of eyes on your neck, the suspicious echoes of footsteps that didn't quite match your own were the closest to warnings you got out here, and even though every fiber of his being told him they were in danger as long as they were on Nar Shaddaa, he knew she wouldn't leave until she'd found her blasted Jedi. Thoughts of the manipulative crone still aboard the Ebon Hawk soured his smirk. She wouldn't leave, and that meant that he couldn't either. For better or worse, he was on Nar Shaddaa and would stay there for the foreseeable future. Might as well have a little fun and make more than a little money.

He scanned the room, looking for a soft target to warm up on. He hadn't actually played in a while, unless you counted the faltering hands he'd patiently suffered through while under confinement on Citadel Station. Which he didn't. How the hell she'd managed to feed herself during her years of exile, he'd never know. The woman had no luck whatsoever. Maybe someday he'd convince her to play Nar Shaddaa rules and take advantage of that unfortunate character trait.

With that tantalizing thought in mind, he approached an old humanoid seated in the open area. The serious players would be ensconced in the partitioned alcoves—fewer distractions and higher stakes—but a friendly game would knock the dust from his deck and get him in the right frame of mind. Then he'd move on to bigger fish.

The man wasn't overly friendly, but he was eager enough to jump at the chance of relieving a young human of his credits, and so the game began with little unnecessary pleasantries. The slap of the cards on the smooth tabletop awoke a giddy comfort in him, and he felt himself relax, just enjoying the rhythm and flow of the game. 

Three. Opponent has five. Plus two. Opponent has twelve, then fourteen. Plus five is ten—wait it out. Conserve the side deck for when you need it. Opponent has eighteen—he's standing. Thirteen, sixteen—should he? Eh, low-stakes and first set—hit. Twenty-two. Bust.

The other man's grin revealed tiny sharp teeth, but Atton shook his head, smiling. The game was far from over.

He won the next one, then they tied in the third. He used his +4 to win the set after that, which threw his opponent into a discontented sulk and made the final set all too easy.

"Hey, good match," he offered after the third and final victory, pocketing the paltry 30 credits in winnings. "Wanna up the stakes and play again?" The humanoid growled and waved him off. Sore loser. Atton shrugged and got up, sauntering over to the bar.

"Having fun?" The ex-Jedi sipped her amber drink, almond-shaped eyes on the far end of the room.

"Loads." He ordered a Trandoshan Fireball and leaned against the bartop, jingling the credits in his pocket. "I'm rich now. Let's buy a planet and settle down."

She snorted, shooting him an amused glance. "But I've grown so accustomed to my destitute lifestyle. It would pain me to abandon it."

"Hey, you're always welcome to dress in rags and beg me for the most basic of amenities." He lowered his voice and arched his eyebrows suggestively. "I'm sure we could work something out."

She laughed, casting her head back and letting him admire the vulnerability of her throat and inwardly lament the modest bindings that covered her beneath her outer robe. The moment was gone too quickly, though, and his gaze slipped easily back up to her warm brown eyes. She took another drink and the corners of her mouth pulled down.

"Isn't that like, against regulations or something?" He gestured toward the alcohol, accepting his own drink from the droid barkeep. The glass was cold, sweating against his hand, and the tactile shock cut through the lazy contentment, sharpening his thoughts. They weren't in the cockpit of the Ebon Hawk any more than she was any girl he'd ever hit on at a cantina. The walls have eyes, and all that shavit. Besides, there was no telling when the old bag would send her pupil a mental chastisement for dallying in the territory of fools and swindlers.

"It's been a long time since I was compelled to adhere to the multitudinous restrictions of the Order," she said loftily, taking a large swallow of her drink and almost choking.

"Is that so?" He sipped the Fireball, rolling the alcohol around in his mouth pensively. He'd have to explore this interesting revelation when they were back on the ship, or at least away from prying eyes.

The Miraluka stirred at her side, as if sensing the illicit trend of his thoughts. "There is much tension in this room. The air quivers with suspicion, greed, and anger. These are desperate people, balanced on the verge of violence. We should be cautious."

"Well." The pilot knocked his drink back and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Guess that's my cue to get back in there and stir the shavit."

"Make it quick, and you just might keep some of the money." She winked when he glared back at her—an unexpected gesture that took him aback. 

She wasn't at all like any Jedi he'd known. Granted, she had left the Order a while ago, but anyone who'd spent as long as she had under the ascetic teachings of the impassive and indecisive sect was, as a rule, emotionally stunted and humorless. Sure, she'd been as thickheadedly "compassionate" and "selfless" as any paragon of the Light side during their time together, but she'd demonstrated a much better grasp of people, of the way the galaxy really worked, than he'd ever thought anyone with ties to the Order could possess. She was respectful when dealing with others, but it was an approach that secured her designs and she made no illusion of moral superiority.

Open, that's what she was. She controlled her emotions and actions, but didn't fret over expressing them honestly. Of course, that was just his superficial take. They'd only been traveling together for a little more than a week, so she could still be putting on a show, but inwardly he had to admit that the Exile that he was beginning to know was incapable of conducting such a charade. What advantage would it give her? He knew Kreia disapproved of the kindness and charity she'd displayed, even more so than the opportunistic recruitment of every passerby who seemed inclined to offer help. Honesty hadn't ingratiated her with Lieutenant Grenn, or with any of those bantha-headed peasants on Dantooine. While he appreciated the idea that she might be frank with him, he couldn't entertain the fantasy that she did it for him. It must just be a part of her.

He didn't like the fact that he couldn't just lump her in with all the others. Hell, he liked her, but he hated not being able to figure her out. If she was as uptight as the rest of them, it'd be a damn shame. With a body like that? Easy fodder for a thought screen, to say the least, but he found that he actually respected her—at least, the version of her that she'd been showing him. Maybe foundations for something real.

He shook his head. He wouldn't know what to do with that. Wasn't used to much more than mutually destructive carnal relations. Not that he'd object to even that much, though...

A curvaceous Twi'lek was smiling at him from the shadows of a match alcove, her eyes half-lidded in a spice-addled stupor. Normally he wouldn't play with someone on spice—it could make some people volatile and irrationally emotional—but she seemed calm and, frankly, somewhat enamored with him. He knew the type. If you played 'em right, you could clean up at the table and still take 'em back to your place after. Pure pazaak. He hadn't had a lay since a few months before being locked in that energy cell on Peragus. 

Of course, given the whole "mission-of-galactic-importance" and "low-profile" thing, a good finish was out of the question. He treated her to some of his best smirks, though, and more of his less-than-sophisticated lines. It kept her mind off the game, and won him 85 credits. As he leaned in to take the money, he felt a slim hand delicately touch down against his knee.

"That match was quite... invigorating," she whispered. He could smell the sweet musk of spice on her breath, and the ambergris oil that many Twi'lek girls favored shone on her shoulders and narrow neck. Her fingers trailed upward. "I'd like to play another game with you, human."

He grinned, shivering at the contact. "Maybe later, sweetheart. Sadly, I've got business to take care of before I can...get into anything pleasurable." 

She pouted, full lips pursing together unhappily, and her fingers traced aimless patterns against the inside of his thigh. "You are being so mean."

"Aw." He pulled away reluctantly, offering her a commiserating smile. "I'll be real nice later. How's that?" He ran a hand lightly down one of her lekku, tweaking the tip, and her eyes glazed with lust. She gave him her apartment address and he lied, promising that he'd come by that night. He knew he couldn't afford to go gallivanting off away from the team for a quick liason. Besides, regardless of what Bao-Dur thought, he stood a hell of a lot better chance of winning the Exile over if he spent more time with her, and definitely avoided sleeping with spice-heads.

He looked over to the bar, and was struck by a jolt of guilt at the ex-Jedi's scowl. Hey, hey, doesn't anger lead to the Dark side, or something? She turned away, engaging the cowled woman beside her in conversation. Whatever; if she wanted to talk to him, she would. His deck was practically humming in his hands, and he knew the high-stake tables were warm and waiting for him.

The pilot lost himself in the cards, the calculations. He'd always had a head for numbers, and the competition was unusually meager today. The adrenal thrill of a close match eluded him, but his winnings were piling up nicely in compensation. With each victory, his opponents seemed to be more bitter than those preceding, and by the time he'd almost swept the brackets, there was a hostile resentment that hung heavy and oppressive as smog in the club's thick atmosphere.

"Pure pazaak." He lay his last card, a plus two, on the table in front of him, smirk achieving a degree of width and toothiness that could only be described as predatory. "That's twenty, compadre. Better luck next time. Unless you're playing me...in which case, you know--"

Something pressed itself against his kneecap, and it sure as hell wasn't the flirtacious fingers of a lusty Twi'lek. He swallowed, quips drying up and crumbling into dust in his mouth.

"Unless you're partial to hopping, human," the Devaronian leaned in close, foul breath hissing from behind bared teeth, "I suggest you recount."

The blaster muzzle bored into the thin skin above his patella, and Atton had little difficulty imagining the searing bolt of energy that would issue from its chamber. From this distance, that little layer of skin would be vaporized; the bolt would reduce his kneecap to a charred powder and pass through cartilage, rend flesh, and emerge in a fountain of gore on the other side. Crippled if he was lucky.

He'd seen others in the disillusioned aftermath of the Jedi Civil War. Men and women who'd been hit by enemy fire, by friendly fire, and even by their own bolts deflected by a lightsaber-wielding idiot--hobbling around on crutches, limping on prosthetics. More simply bled out. Those were mostly wounds incurred through long-range fire, and there wasn't so much as a green battlefield medic out here.

"Well? My finger tires, smoothskin. You can make this easy or extremely painful." The other man scratched the raised flesh at the base of his horns, eyes never breaking contact with Atton's.

He knew he couldn't reach his blaster in time, and both of his hands were above the table. If he moved so much as an inch, he'd still lose the knee. Handing over the money was not an option. He'd seen this go down too many times before to believe that the Devaronian would risk letting him live to squeal to the authorities. Stupid. He'd been too relaxed. All that mental pazaak during downtime on the Hawk had--

"Is there a problem?" He flinched at her voice, but luckily the alien wasn't as trigger-happy as had been indicated. Which was good, because that meant Atton was still attached to the bottom half of his left leg, but also exceedingly bad because it meant that his captor was experienced and/or quite confident in his plan.

"This doesn't concern you, female." The other man waved his free hand dismissively. "You have no business here."

She moved closer to the alien—not quite close enough to be considered a threat, but near enough to demand his attention and partially obscure his view of Atton. "I'm afraid I have to disagree. This man is my pilot, and I need him to get me off of this moon. He's a disagreeable one to be sure, and a little on the slow side, but he's mine all the same. My crew would be...upset to say the least were our departure delayed for any reason."

Atton scowled at the jibe, but couldn't deny the sudden rush that heated his gut when she'd claimed him. She leaned her hip into the table, interrupting the Devaronian's line of sight and allowing Atton to slip a hand off the table. He slid his palm across his leg, gingerly approaching the muzzle of the blaster holding him hostage. If the alien were distracted, he just might be able to push the gun away before he got a shot off.

The mention of a crew seemed to perturb the man. Were Atton alone and defenseless, he could simply take a long walk off a short dock with no one the wiser—bodies were a common discovery in the alleys and semi-abandoned areas of Nar Shaddaa. It was another matter entirely if concerned or otherwise persistent parties survived. Inquiries could be made. Investigations could be conducted. There was no guarantee that these offworlders wouldn't take matters into their own hands...After a period of deliberation, the alien shrugged.

"I want no trouble from you or your crew, but this man has slighted my honor, and I believe that he cheated in our pazaak game. You understand--"

"Cheated?" Atton seethed in indignation. Only the most cocky and simpleminded of beginners tried to cheat in pazaak. He prided himself on skill and speed, and all practiced players held a respect for the game rivaled only by their survival instinct. "I beat you fair and square, you lying--"

A split-second too late, he saw the Devaronian's eyes harden decisively, and moved for the gun. He shoved out at it and started to bring his leg in, pulling the knee toward his other leg and hoping that--

He registered the pain before the noise. It was a white-hot flare on the outside of his knee, which ripped outwards in a thick staccato howling. Oh slag. The agony sent him pitching forward reflexively, falling down and off his chair. There was a heavy impact nearby, but he couldn't see, couldn't focus, couldn't think—He caught himself, hands scrabbling in a tacky slickness on the floor. 

Wh-blood. Whose blood is that? He thought distantly, staring at the very red mess. He tensed his thighs, tried to push himself up, but his leg gave out and he ended up awkwardly slumped in the chair, belly compacted against the underside of his spine. 

"Atton!" She gripped him beneath the arms and hauled him up, turned him over, and he almost screamed at the flare of agony that shot up through his leg.

"Ha-aah—oh, that's not...pleasant," he gasped, clutching the front of her robes for support. Blood stained the green cloth an ugly brackish brown. "S-sorry."

The healthy bronze color had drained from her face, but her eyes were clear and calculating as she appraised the wound. "Don't be sorry. Give me your knife." 

He fought through the crush of static in his head, fumbling in the inner folds of his jacket for the short wicked blade he always carried. He didn't ask how she knew, he didn't care, he didn't care, oh stars and craters and slag—he felt dizzy, but she took it from his trembling hands.

"Atton, listen to me." Her voice was quiet but steady, unwavering, and it cut through the gathering haze like a shaft of ice. "You're going to be fine. I've got to clear the wound, and then I can help you. You're losing a lot of blood, but you're going to be okay."

He felt a tugging at his thigh and heard the reedy tearing of cloth. Each small movement sent waves of pain and nausea rippling up from the damaged site, and he was gritting his teeth so hard he was sure they'd crack and fall out. His grip tightened, and the thick fabric of her robe anchored him.

He hadn't been hit in a while. He'd gotten slow, gotten soft. Kreia's soft cackling filled his ears. Fool, fool, too stupid to live, too stubborn to die outright. Suffer for your sins.

His spine stiffened as she began probing the injury, but he forced himself to be quiet, to manage the pain and use it as he had in the past. Let it sharpen him, focus him. Slowly, his thoughts gained clarity and his breathing evened out.

"Okay, I need you to hold still and breathe deeply. Focus on the world around you—let the pain slip away." Her hands were fire against his skin, but he obeyed, vision narrowing to her face, angled down and away in concentration. The worried crease in her brow, the delicate crinkles near her eyes smoothed and vanished, and she exhaled softly—breathing out and out and out until he could practically feel her diaphragm quivering against the vacuum. He expected a wash of power and contentment as the Force moved from her to him, but instead there was a tugging at his center; he felt something like a cool breeze winding around his knee, and the unsettling sensation of flesh sliding, bone cracking, muscles knitting back into place.

"Ah-h! Frak me!" It itched suddenly, horribly, and he kicked out, boots squeaking in the smears of his own blood. No pain. He slumped in relief, then barked out nervous laughter. He'd heard about Jedi using the Force to heal, but he'd never seen it firsthand. They'd been lucky enough to avoid major injuries so far, which was a wonder in and of itself. If the blast had hit him dead on, would the Force have been enough to save his knee, his leg?

Her hands slipped around his wrists, tapered fingers pulling gently at his own, and he realized he was still holding onto her robes.

"Uh. Sorry." He disengaged, but held her hands for a moment longer. They were warm, albeit streaked with his blood. "Thanks." A stupid, short word. Overwhelmingly inadequate.

"Not necessary." She smiled and helped him up, steadying him when he wobbled with vertigo. "We should get back to the ship. You've lost a lot of blood, and I don't think we're in the most...presentable of states."

"Yeah." It was no surprise that nobody had come to investigate the sound of blaster fire—pazaak den regulars across the galaxy had learned that it was best to avoid involvement if at all possible, and the other solicitors of this fine establishment had most likely run off as soon as they'd heard it. 

She wiped his knife carefully on the hem of her robes, then handed it back to him, hilt first. He nodded his thanks and tucked it back into his jacket's inner pocket. He glanced over the table to see the Devaronian in a crumpled heap against the alcove partition, horned head bowed. He could just make out chest movement—still breathing. Atton wasn't exactly thrilled, but he let it go when he saw the man's credit pouch lying on the floor.

"I'll just be taking this." He stooped down, snagging the small leather bag with difficulty. Then he knelt and looted the guy for good measure, taking his cards and the few credits the alien had, for whatever reason, chosen to put in his pockets instead of in the pouch. Glowering, Atton removed the snub-nosed blaster from the man's limp fingers, engaged the bolt-lock, and slipped it behind his back. "I'll take that too."

Straightening back up induced another head-rush, and he froze, blinking until the spots cleared from his vision. "Ugh, that's gonna get old."

The Exile's face was blank again, and he suppressed a shiver. It was unsettling to see her so...empty. No emotion, no energy, just...there. Like a creepy statue. 

"Hey, fearless leader?" He reached out to touch her, but thought better of it. He leaned out of the alcove to check out the rest of the den--empty, just as he'd thought. Except for the Miraluka, of course, who stood guard at the door. Faithful little kath pup, that one. Seriously twisted, but a zealous convert to the cause. "Anyone coming?" 

"No." 

He waited for some morbid, imagery-laden exposition, but the woman did not continue. He returned his attention to the pazaak table, collecting what few scattered credits remained of his official winnings. A sharp intake of breath alerted him to the Jedi's return to the world of the young and virile.

"Message from Kreia." The Exile's tone was grim, and she unhooked her 'saber from her belt. "There's going to be some trouble getting back to the Hawk." He followed her out of the recess.

"Any particular kind of trouble? I mean, is this Sith-trouble, or bounty hunter-trouble, or just your general garden-variety--" 

"Trandoshan slaver-trouble." She nodded to the Miraluka, and the three jogged out of the entertainment module. 

"Ah, well, at least it's new for us. I've been dying for a break from routine." He still felt lightheaded, and each footfall was a concussive round bursting within his skull. A small, childish part if him was marveling at the healthy wholeness of his knee, rejoicing in the smooth action of the joint, but he smothered it. The ground lurched towards him suddenly, throwing off the rhythm of his stride so that his next step stuttered and jolted his hip. The world spun slightly. 

She stopped and confronted him, critically examining his face and posture. "You okay to fight? It could--"

A swell of indignation flared in his chest. "I don't need coddling, I can take care of myself just fine, thanks."

She shook her head and picked up the pace, igniting her lightsaber as she ran. The Miraluka was a black and scarlet Chlovi cat in her uncannily fluid grace, and both women soon drew ahead of him. He scowled and pumped his legs, feeling a heavy grayness prickling at his temples. It wasn't far; he didn't need help from anyone. He'd kill twice as many of those stupid lizards as she did once they reached the Hawk.

They cut through an abandoned storage unit and sped down a narrow passage. Litter scuttled and flew away from their flashing feet, and Atton had enough presence of mind to mind to avoid stepping in anything with slip potential. The women reached the end of the hall first, turning a sharp left, and he followed. His momentum was all that controlled his feet now; it demanded that they rise and fall with increasing frequency, threatening to spill him face-first into the gutter if they didn't comply. His head was splitting.

He was relieved to see the droid shop flash by, but the Exile and her pet had pulled much too far ahead. Her hair bounced from shoulder to shoulder as she ran, and he concentrated on that tar black braid, on the dun field of her robes. He focused on the Jedi's back, on the steady swing of her strong hips, and willed himself forward. His vision was tunneling a bit, which was cause for alarm, but it would be safer to run himself blind than to stop and face his weakness now, here in the back alleys of Nar Shaddaa. Slag. He imagined casting out a lasso and looping it tight around her waist, harnessing her energy and pulling her to him as she drew him forward. He could feel her, then—a slender column of cold silver, silently radiating a boundless grief. The sensation was almost enough to make him forget about his lightheadedness, but not nearly enough to set it to rights, and he found himself snapping out of the weird, narrow longing as his knees gave out.

He fell hard, forearms and knuckles scraping against the unforgiving steel when his hands wouldn't respond fast enough. Breath whooshed from his chest and the Devaronian's credit pouch pressed cruelly into his gut. Atton cursed in his head, but couldn't quite articulate it. Hot pulses, dizzying in the accompanying pressure, thundered at his temples. He'd lost more blood than he'd thought. This wasn't great, but he was stubborn enough to get through it.

He thought.

The unmistakable thrum of lightsabers engaging filtered in from a distance. Stupid Jedi, starting the party without him. What if she needed help? He forced himself up, stumbling against a wall and clinging to it for a few seconds before he was sure enough in his balance to move forward. He shuffled slowly, one hand trailing on the wall, the other gripping his blaster, still attached to his belt. Wouldn't do to advertise his weapon just yet, and he doubted anyone would get past the two Force users before he could round the corner.

Each step was punctuated in his head with a hazy pressure, turning his view of the alley to waves of black and delirious mauve that left dancing golden suns when they receded. He growled, stalking determinedly ahead until he came to the end of the wall. The sounds of battle had faded; bulge-eyed lizards in armor lay strewn along the dock and landing pad, one hanging half-off the Hawk's loading ramp. Exposed to open air, he was buffeted by the harsh Nar Shadaa winds as he picked his way across the railless dock. 

A bolt of red blasterfire screamed past him to add to the Ebon Hawk's tally of battlescars, scoring a thin black burst against the gray hull. Atton cursed and lurched faster, not stopping until he'd crossed the narrow catwalk. He propped himself against one of the docking ramp's supports, and scanned the bay for his assailant. Another bolt, this one splashing into the metal a foot shy of his head, so close he could taste the oily ozone of its discharge. There—a newly one-armed Trandoshan perilously close to the edge of the platform had levered itself up over the body of one of its compatriots, and hissed hate at him.

Atton aimed carefully, working harder than usual to steady his hand, and shot three times. He didn't miss. The successful kill didn't give him strength so much as it did resolve, but whatever the semantics, he ducked into the Ebon Hawk with a degree of confidence vaguely akin to that of a man who wasn't missing about two pints of blood.

He smelled the dead before his eyes adjusted enough to see the bodies. Blood, filth from relaxed bowels, singed skin, sweat, and the electric acridity of blaster discharge. In the close darkness, he had to remind himself that this wasn't the bad old days. He wasn't at war, but dammit, his home had been invaded. With a lurch of his stomach, he realized that not all the bodies might belong to the invaders.

He checked each crumpled heap, one eye always on the passage ahead, ears pricked for those behind. All Trandoshans so far, thankfully. There were sounds of fighting coming from the command center, so he looped around, checking the side-rooms for ambush. 

There was a Trandoshan crouching in the storage hold, back to him as it bound a gash in its thigh. One shot to the nape of the neck sent it twitching to the floor in spasmodic death throes. He caught another trying to sneak up on him, but was able to send a blaster bolt into its face before its long claws sank into his belly. They had a taste for eviscerations, Trandoshans did. The thing had jumped out at him, though, and he wasn't fast enough to dodge the body, and its momentum drove him to the ground. His head snapped back against the cold grillwork of the Hawk's floor, and he saw stars whirl out of the walls and ceiling.

"Just perfect." He pushed up against the dead weight, but the effort made him woozy, so he decided to rest for a minute. Just a little bit, just enough to get his strength back... He closed his eyes, submitting for a moment to the blackness that was so eager to engulf him. 

He woke up in medbay with an IV in his arm and a vise-like pressure around his hand.

"Hells, but that light is bright," he groaned, squinting up at the blinding whiteness that ringed the ceiling. Probably the closest to a halo he'd ever get. The pain in his hand ebbed away, but every muscle felt fatigued.

"Kreia's right. You are a fool." She was okay, then. Sounded a little pissed, but definitely alive.

"Have I ever denied it?" He grinned, turning his head to face her. Not a scratch on her—that he could see, at any rate. From her expression, he doubted that she'd submit to a more thorough inspection any time soon. "I take it we won our ship back, then."

She nodded, brow still furrowed in condemnation. "We did. Everyone else is okay, but T-3 could do with a new chassis."

"Great, because, you know, I was just so worried about the tin can." He flexed his sore fingers, smirking as the color rose in her cheeks.

"Then you'll be glad to hear that most of your pazaak winnings have been donated to the cause." It was her turn to smile, but he wasn't too pissed. Not really. It was hard to be very mad when you woke up next to a beautiful woman. Still...

"C'mon, I bled for those! What happened to the planet we were gonna buy?" It was hard to tell with the angle and the lighting being what they were, but he thought she was blushing.

"Some of it's going towards the Telosian fuel fund, and the rest is in your IV," she said archly. "You bled too much. Almost three pints, plus a concussion. That's our last supplemental fluid bag, and we're running low on medkits and anaesthetics. I sent Mical and Bao-Dur out for more, just in case you get it in your thick head to play cards again."

"Well, don't expect to get much for it," he grumbled, settling back against the hard cushion. "Blondie can't haggle worth shavit. You should have gone."

"I wanted to be here." Her words were as stiff as his pillow. She met his curious gaze briefly, then busied herself with the drip gauge. "I didn't want to leave the ship so soon after...after I almost lost it."

"Yeah?" She must've added a painkiller or something to the bag, because a weird warmth was spreading through him and making it hard to think. "I know what you mean. For a moment there, I thought I was out of a job. Not that you pay me, of course." 

"There are more profitable ways to get yourself killed, I suppose." She sat back down in the seat by the cot. "I owe you an apology. I was so worried about everyone on the ship, I didn't stop to think about whether you were too—"

"I'm fine, it's alright," he said hurriedly, wanting to reach up and brush away the trembling in her lips, to smooth the crease in her brow, but he couldn't lift his arms, so he grinned up at her instead. "I'm good. Got three would-be slavers all by myself."

"An improvement on your usual performance." She nodded sagely, and he pretended to be offended. Everything was soft, and he felt like he was floating.

"What did you do with the bodies?" He asked, more to keep her talking than anything else.

Her face tightened for a second, thick brows knitting together above unfocused eyes. "Looted and gathered in the port airlock. We'll flush them once we're off-planet. T3 is cleaning the floors, but it'll take a while for the smell to dissipate." He could see her clenched fist on the cot by his side. White knuckles stood out on her bronze skin.

"They have ship?" His tongue was fuzzy and slow to respond, but that was okay, because his brain wasn't working too quickly either. "More lizards?"

"I'd assume they do, somewhere, but we haven't heard or felt anything." Ah yes, the Force. He wondered if you could feel particular people through it. He wondered how he felt to her. Then he remembered that freaky bond thing she shared with stooped, sallow, and wrinkly, and that kinda killed the moment.

"How long?" He asked instead.

"You were out for about six hours, here for maybe five of those." She looked down to her lap. "We only found you when we were clearing the bodies and brought you here immediately. You looked...it wasn't good."

"Yeah, well," his mouth was horribly dry, and it ached when he swallowed. "I feel fantastic now."

"Shut up." She disappeared for a second, then he felt smooth, cool metal pressed to his lips. "Drink."

He obliged, sipping and spluttering at first. She slid an arm beneath his shoulders and pulled him up into a sitting position. She wasn't overly gentle, but the movement put her exposed neck and collar so close that he could feel her warmth and catch her scent rising from her skin, so he couldn't complain. She returned the cup to his lips and this time he drank greedily.

"Easy," she said. "We don't want it coming back up." She seemed focused with more than professional interest on his lips and the movement of his throat as he swallowed, and he felt a surge of heat that wasn't from the IV. She caught him watching, though, and withdrew the cup hurriedly. "I think that's enough for now."

"Thanks." It was easier to talk. "For this and before."

"Please don't. You'd have done the same."

He snorted. "Tried, maybe. I'm being sincere here, so don't spoil it. Thank you."

She flushed. "You're welcome."

The silence lengthened uncomfortably, and he found himself listening to the hum of the overhead lights.

She cleared her throat and held up a deck of cards, stiff and glossy. "You wanna play pazaak? I, uh, need to break these in."

He laughed.

"Sure, I've got time."


End file.
